I Worship Steven Moffat and Sam-and-Sherlock-in-the-TARDIS Present
by I Worship Steven Moffat
Summary: Series of Supernatural and Doctor Who oneshots/ficlets. Authors are myself and the lovely Sam-and-Sherlock-in-the-TARDIS. Not SuperWho, although I may add one or two. Make sure to review! Rated K-T
1. Donna's Dream

**A/N: Author: I Worship Steven Moffat. This is so small, but I suck at Donna fanfics and this is the best I could do. Please enjoy and review! Thanks!**

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In her dreams, she sees an enormous red spider that bears a humanoid face. It is laughing, hissing, and then the view changes to show a man.

His hair is soaking and his face is grave. Water is pouring down like rain, splashing around in ferocious waves. Suddenly it stops. All is calm except for the creaking of pipework and the screams of the spider. She looks down and sees a white-

Donna wakes with a start, breathing heavily. Her shirt sticks to her with sweat. She does not remember the dream.


	2. Isn't He Always?

**A/N: Author: I Worship Steven Moffat. This is set in 'Silence in the Library/Forest of the Dead' in the fourth season. Disclaimer: I do NOT own Doctor Who or any of its affiliates. The show belongs to the BBC and the creators.**_  
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_"You look after him!"_

River shakes her head to clear the memory. "You're so young," she breathes, her dark eyes flitting about his features.

"I'm really not." His voice is so tired, so worn.

"Oh, but you are!"

And indeed he is. A look of bewilderment paints the face of the man she so loves. Oh, how she has missed him. He is very young-the youngest she's seen him. River thinks that they are so far back in the timeline that he is still confused to whom she might be. A warm feeling of giddiness fills her, buzzing slightly and making her fingertips and toes tingle.

"You do know who I am, don't you Doctor?"

River spots a stray emotion flickering in his eyes-pain, confusion. There are others, untapped, just below the surface; untouchable anger and so much guilt. There is no gleam of recognition flaring up, however. He mutters is, so quietly she almost does not catch it, but her heart sinks anyway.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Isn't he always?


	3. Perfection

**A/N: Set in 'Journey's End'. Rose/Ten oneshot. Author: I Worship Steven Moffat**

Rose waits for the words to come out, pouring from his lips like butter.

"I said, 'Rose Tyler...'"

She breaths in sharply, trying to stop her tears. "And how was that sentence going to end?"

He leans forward, his warm breath tickling her ear as he whispers, "I love you."

Rose doesn't fight it and yanks him forward, gripping the Doctor-_my Doctor_, she thinks-by his jacket and crushing her frozen lips against his own. His arms snake around her back, pulling Rose even closer to him as if he fears she will fade.

The kiss is feverish and their salty tears mingle and he is holding her so tight she has forgotten how to breathe properly, but for them it is perfect, or the closest thing to it.

They take no mind of Donna of the duplicate, of Jackie. There is only the tight embrace, the unspoken things that no longer need to be said. Rose knows in her heart that it cannot last and she pulls away. The Doctor smiles sadly and nods.

She steps back, unable to look into the eyes of the duplicate Doctor, his _replacement _(and even though it sickens her, brings bile to her throat to think this, it rings the truth), as he and Donna enter the TARDIS once more. She does not hold back the tears and lets the duplicate Doctor take her cold hand in his warm one.

She cannot breathe, fighting to keep her tears under control as the TARDIS de-materialises, growing fainter with each passing second. And then it is gone and she falls to the ground, ignoring the wet sand.

oh, if only perfection were not so fleeting.


	4. Cry Me a River

**A/N: Set after Angels Take Manhattan. Author: Sam-and-Sherlock-in-the-TARDIS**

It's only once they are going to bed, that River cries. He had dressed in TARDIS blue pajamas, and when he turns to the bed, River is already there, wearing one of his white button-up shirts, tears glistening in her eyes. The bed sinks slightly under their combined weight, and the Doctor sits next to her, covering her hand in both of his. He lifts it to his lips and kisses it gently.

She drops her head heavily on his shoulder, bawling silently into the fabric of his pajamas. He carefully bundles River into his arms and lies back, pulling her gently down with him. With a free hand, the Doctor grabs the blue duvet and tugs it up to cover the both of them, tucking it under her side. She grips his arm tightly, her back shaking as her body is racked with gulping sobs.

He stares at the top of her curly head, kissing her wan cheeks and forehead, rubbing her back in large, comforting circular motions. By the time River has cried all of her tears, the shoulder of his pajamas is soaked with salty tears. They lie there for several long, silent minutes, tear tracks drying on both of their faces. She helps him out of the shirt, tosses it over the side of the bed, and leans in to kiss him.

Later, after they make love, she drifts off to sleep; head on his bare chest, her wild curls spread out in a golden-brown halo around her peaceful face. After an hour or so of listening to the slow, easy in-and-out of River's breathing, the Doctor falls into an uneasy sleep, drifting in and out of dreamland.

When River wakes the next morning, he is already awake, watching her with a small smile as he fiddles absent-mindedly with a single curl. She drowsily smiles back, stretching in a catlike way, rubbing a hand over her slightly swollen eyes. They lie in bed for the morning, snuggled under the covers. And when the Doctor thinks she is dozing, that is when he whispers, "I'm sorry, River."

To which she replies, "you have nothing to be sorry for."


	5. A Good Life

**A/N: So I wanted to right Ten/Rose fluff and ended up with this bit of angst. Enjoy. Author: I Worship Steven Moffat**

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It's been a good life for Rose Tyler. She spent a good chunk of it in space, traversing the cosmos with the Doctor. And now it must come to an end, for they are weary. They had children, Jack and Donna. Now grandchildren, John and Rosie. She wonders sometimes how she could have possibly been graced with such good fortune. Rose usually answers this with the response, "Mum probably threatened God with a beating if he didn't comply."

This makes the Doctor laugh, which occasionally spurs a round of racking coughs. They are neither of them as young as they once were. Only nineteen when she met him.

He, of course, is as handsome as he ever was and a charmer to boot. Rose dotes on the little ones, taking them on adventures through the "universe"—their backyard. Sometimes, there are days when the Doctor does take them into the stars. Always to someplace safe—these are children, of course.

Rose grips his hand like a child might, tears spilling onto her wrinkled cheeks. "It's time, I think," she whispers. The Doctor smiles and clasps her small hand in both of his.

"Rose Tyler," he begins, tears shining in his brown eyes, "I…"


	6. The Boy Who Waited

**A/N: Wow. This hurts a lot. I've never done a Rory fic before and I wanted to try it out. Extremely pleased (and depressed) with the results! Author: I Worship Steven Moffat**

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Rory remembers how long he had waited. Two thousand years…and he now must wait a few more minutes. Surely she will come for him, surely she loves him enough? He sits down on a cold concrete step, his breath puffing out in little clouds. It takes only a moment for him to fully realised what has happened. Obviously he is back, because that's the point of the angels, is it not?

He stares at the building across thee road. _Winter Quay_, reads the enormous sign. Rory sighs. Must it always end this way, with him waiting? To keep his mind off of Amy, who has yet to show up, he counts the number of times he has died since meeting the Doctor.

He was dissolved into a pile of ash, he was shot, he was erased from time. Shot again, drowned, aged to death. Not to mention his latest feat, suicide.

And then: "Goodbye."

It is her voice, broken and scared, and she is stumbling backwards. She does not see him. Rory stands. "Amy!"

She whips around her red hair flying and her skin more translucent than ever. "Rory," she mutters, sobbing freely.

Rory catches his wife in a hug, letting her cry into his shoulder, her slender frame shaking. "It's okay," he whispers. "I'm here. I'll always be here."


	7. Winged

**A/N: Dean and Wing!Cas oneshot. Author: Sam-and-Sherlock-in-the-TARDIS. Edited by I Worship Steven Moffat.**

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The first time Dean sees Castiel's wings, he is 99.9% certain that he is hallucinating.

First off, you expect angel wings to white and fluffy, right? At least, that's how they're portrayed in books, movies, and paintings. WRONG. Completely and utterly wrong. Try again. Try, huge—and I mean _huge_—and black.

But black sounds so boring and plain. It's not nearly expressive enough. They are ebony, shimmering in the light with every single colour that humankind has a name for, and even some that they don't. Blue, purple, green, grey, you name it, it's there. They're absolutely breathtaking. And the size of them! They are absolutely massive; at least seven feet each.

They ripple under the light, colours spilling back and forth over the glossy surface of the feathers. It's almost like an oil spill; that might sound ugly, but imagine it: dark and glossy with a symphony of colour. Dean isn't sure what alcohol or drugs he got into in order to see these, but he sure as hell wants to find out; that way he can get some more.

He wants to touch them; he bets they would be soft. It seems very taboo, almost intimate. But the urge is there, and it's strong. He wonders what it would feel like to run his fingers through the feathers; to count the colours and try to name them. It would take hours, days even. Before he can stop to think of the repercussions, Dean extends his hand and catches his fingers in the silky feathers.

Cas watches him, a strange look on his face as his cheeks tinge pink. He tilts his head to the side, his forehead scrunched in concentration.

"Cas. Man, your wings are friggin' awesome," Dean whispers reverently, pulling Cas closer to the bed so that he can further examine the wings. As far as he can tell, each feather is completely different; woven with several colours at once.

"Dean… I think you should probably stop doing that," Cas says, narrowing his eyes further as Dean scrutinizes his wings, oblivious to the uncomfortable tension lingering around Cas. Dean nods like he heard him and continues his examination, running the tip of his finger lightly over the outline of one wing.

"Dean. Please… Stop." Cas is more urgent now, and this catches Dean's attention. Dean looks up, raising his eyebrows quizzically.

"Hey, dude, what's up?" he asks, touching his arm and looking slightly concerned. And then Cas is on him, and their lips are touching and it's so terribly wrong, but so terribly right, and Dean is threading his fingers through his hair, and—Dean is gasping, pulling away, and staring in amazement at the angel before him as he realizes what just happened.

The angel who doesn't look anything like an angel should. Cas looks thoroughly debauched, hair rumpled and screaming _sex_ and his lips puffy and swollen from the kiss. His trench coat hangs off one heaving shoulder, the belt falling towards the ground and the shirt underneath is wrinkled and half pulled out of his suit trousers.

Dean's green eyes are so wide, that for a moment Cas is actually worried they might pop out of his head. He runs a large hand over his face, shaking his head. Castiel is confused. Is this normal behaviour for someone after they have been kissed? Unless… Unless Dean hadn't wanted his proposal to mate.

"Dean, I apologize. It was not my intention to make you uncomfortable. I misunderstood your intentions. You see, grooming the wings, as you were doing, is something only mates do," Cas explains, looking embarrassed. He would never intentionally make Dean uncomfortable.

Dean just watches him for a few minutes, still in shock. Cas turns away and in a _whoosh_ of wings is gone. "What?" Dean says, looking around in bewilderment.

"Cas, you son of a bitch, get back here!" he barks gruffly at the ceiling. He turns on the spot and finds himself nose-to-nose with Castiel. The angel narrows his eyes in thought, tilting his head towards his shoulder.

"What, Dean? What do you want?" he asks. He is embarrassed. He just asked a human to mate with him by kissing him, and was turned down.

"Dude! Obviously I wasn't done talking to you." Dean shakes his head in exasperation and pokes Cas' chest on the 'you'. Cas sways slightly, rocking on the balls of his feet.

"Cas, man, that was a friggin' awesome kiss," says Dean, as if Castiel should know this. The trenchcoated angel knows very little of human reactions to fornication. Surely every human's reaction is different, right? He wishes to read Dean's mind, but feels this would not go over well.

Before he has time to disappear again, leave all this confusion behind, Dean grabs his wrists and kisses him. It's different this time, soft and slow. Tender. Dean touches his face, pulling back. Cas is still confused. Is this a yes or a no? His answer is given when Dean pushes him towards the bed and climbs in next to him, ready to pull him in for another kiss.


	8. Fighter

**A/N: I don't really know. This is sort of weird, and it sucks, but WHATEVER. NOT CONTINUING. THIS IS A ONESHOT.**

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I heard it before I saw it. I whipped around, my hands flying up defensively.

"Gimme all your money!"

My life was in danger, as well as my bank account, but I sighed anyway. "Couldn't at least have tried for some originality? And besides, I haven't got my wallet with me. Feel free to check."

The masked man furrowed his brow, looking thoroughly confused. He kept his gun directed at my heart, but outstretched one gloved hand and patted me down.

Then I got my window of opportunity. He lowered his eyes slightly and the gun dropped about two inches. He was just reaching down for my boots, obviously trying to see if I had hidden anything down them.

I swung my right leg upwards, first kneeing him in the groin and then stomping down hard, grinding my foot into his instep. The gun went off and then fell from his loosened grip as he reflexively reached for his crotch, protecting it from further damage.

The second he was doubled over, I kicked up again, with my left leg this time. My kneecap made direct contact with his nose.

A crack split the air and I knew immediately that it was broken. He let out an animal-esque howl of pain and started backing away, a steady drip of blood issuing from his nose.

I grabbed the gun off of the cold black asphalt and cocked it expertly, pointing it at his heart until he had managed to shuffle around the corner.

Then I collapsed, my hands scrabbling in the now soaked-through fabric of my shirt. I was too focused on the blood to hear the noise. I slipped out of my grey hoody, tying it as securely as I could around my chest and knotting the sleeves. I'm not certain what happened next; it's all fuzzy.

The last thing I remember before I passed out was seeing the blurry shape of a man and the blue box that stood behind him.

"Mmf."

I cracked my eyes open, but it was too bright for me and I closed them again. "Where am I?" I mumbled, my tongue feeling too large in my mouth. The simple question ended up sounding like, "Whu mm eh?"

Eventually the red glare that invaded my eyelids faded to a light orange and I was able to open my eyes. A friendly-looking man was grinning down at me.

He was weird—that much I could tell just by looking around the room. He had gorgeous hair; dark brown and sticky-uppy. Rail-thin. His clothes would probably fit me. He was wearing a striped brown suit and a tan overcoat and a pair of rectangular frames were perched on his straight nose. He wasn't exactly what was weird about the room.

What really let me know were the pictures—funny-looking circles, all overlapping in beautiful strokes. I was lying on a cot, and I had no bullet wound to speak of. In fact, I felt better than I had in weeks. My annoying shoulder ache that had plagued me was gone and so were the weird bruises that patterned my arms like they do bruised peaches.

Since the man had not answered my first question, I tried again. "What happened?"

"Well, you were in the middle of dying from a direct hit to your left lung, so I picked you up in my handy police box and healed you! Only had to use a small amount of Time Energy, so nothing bad happened."

I rubbed my eyes. "What the hell are you going on about?"

"Might as well get this over with. My name is the Doctor. I'm a Time Lord from the planet Gallifrey in the constellation of Kasterborous. I fought in the Time War and wiped out the Daleks. Well, sort of. I'm 903 years old and I think I just saved your life."

"Oh. Right, then. Er, mind telling me where exactly we are?"

The Doctor (if that was even his name) looked slightly taken aback. "You believe me? That's a first."

I nodded impatiently and pulled myself into a sitting position. "Yes. Mind answering the question?"

"Oh, yeah. We're in the TARDIS. Stands for Time And Relative Dimension In Space. I can fly anywhere in time and space. Lovely old girl, isn't she?"

"Yeah," I said faintly. "Lovely."


End file.
